


Life Every Man Holds Dear

by Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise



Series: Loki Fics [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bittersweet, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Foreshadowed Amora, Good Loki, Healing, Just a Bit of Shakespeare, Legal Drama, Love, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Thor: The Dark World, Prison, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise/pseuds/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Thor's vision, he returns to Asgard and confronts Loki. As a death sentence looms, pretenses are dropped and confessions made. Faced with execution, what is honor's worth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> In this one, Loki is a good guy! Check out my previous fanfiction "Though This Be Madness" to see how I imagined that working. This isn't necessarily a direct continuation, but it could fit.

The messenger was breathless and sweaty. “Thor has returned,” he gasped. An instant later the throneroom doors heaved open and Thor strode in. Gone was the uplifted gratitude with which he'd left. His brow was stormy and fury glittered in his eyes. He stopped in the center of the room, radiating tension.

Loki's heart dropped, sickened. He kept his voice--Odin's voice--controlled. “Thor.”

“Father,” he growled. “Something is wrong.”

He continued the calm facade. “What have you seen, my son?”

Thor's glower darkened. “A vision.”

The sickness deepened. “Did you see it from the Norns, child? In the pool?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath. “I trust that your news is grave, but I would warn you against possible counterfeit. It would be easy for a powerful sorcerer to mimic such a vision for the furtherance of their own ambitions—especially if that sorcerer had trained under the Norns themselves.”

“What would I do that could further a sorcerer's ambitions?”

“I know not. My caution is only a general warning. What did you see?”

“I saw Asgard falling to ruin; I saw six stones. I saw my brother. He took on your form, Father...he spoke in your voice.” The confusion on Thor's face dawned into realization, darkened.

“Have you found any explanation—any clue as to what this is or when it will take place?”

Thor's voice was low. “I believe it has already begun.”

A long moment slipped by in silence. Loki gestured to the guards. “Leave us.”

Some left, others cast back an uncertain glance before departing.

When the last was gone, he stood.

Tears glistened in his brother's eyes.

“Before I--”

“No,” he growled. “Just do it.”

He took a deep breath and dropped the disguise.

Thor's face crumpled. He shook his head, looking as if he wanted to speak but unable.

Loki spoke softly and the chamber magnified the near whisper. “It is not what it seems.”

Thor took a deep, trembling breath. “It never is, is it?”

He had thought about this situation; what he would say, how he would say it. None of it seemed to work now. “Thor, when I told you--"

“No!” he shouted. Thunder crashed overhead. “I trusted you!” Tears ran down his face, features contorted in anguish. “It was the last time!” Mjolnir spun into a blur.

What could he do? Where could he go? He could vanish, but his guilt would be proven in his brother's mind. He put up his hands slightly, in surrender.

Thor roared and the hammer flew. It smashed into his chest and threw him back against the throne, and in only a moment Thor had ascended the stairs and stood before him, chest heaving, face shiny with mucus and tears and hammer uplifted. His shoulders jerked with a sob and he shook his head, cocked the hammer back and struck...

 

Cold stone against his cheek. Loki blinked, winced, blinked more slowly. His left eye wouldn't open. His head and his chest seemed to split when he moved. Shackles on his wrists and ankles, hands behind his back, chains connected to the wall. This was not the cell his mother had given him—this was the real dungeon. He closed his eye.

Later that day a guard arrived. “The Allfather is dead, and in his stead Thor is rightfully crowned. His first decree is your execution, set to take place in one week.” He left as abruptly as he'd come. Loki drifted back to sleep.

 

“Loki.”

Dark. “Mother?” His voice was faraway, sluggish.

“No. Get up.”

The voice slipped away.

An electric crash and a shock shot through the shackles. He gasped and the cell came into focus. He blinked hard and his left eye opened as well, with full vision. Congealed blood crusted his eyelid and lashes, though, and he rubbed it gingerly on his shoulder.

Standing on the other side of the clear wall was Sif.

He paused, worked himself up to an elbow and then sat upright, paused again to fend off dizziness. There she was, looking at him, her face a mask of attempted indifference over anger.

His heart skipped a beat and raced. Broken memories came in a barrage, each one an instant and a lifetime.

_Light gilding her face as they sat in the dining hall, sunset. The bold curve of her eyebrows, the straight line of her nose, firm lips and strong jaw framed by a cascade of raven hair. Her eyes were fixed on the middle ground. She was thinking..._

_Training ring. He entered and she turned, face breaking into a brilliant smile and hand lifting in a wave._

_Sitting by the hearth, solitary together. No need to speak, no need to do anything but stir the fire. She put her head on his shoulder and her hair smelled lovely._

_A hundred conversations, a hundred thousand hours spent studying each other--features, expressions, mannerisms, thoughts, likes, until she felt as familiar to him as he himself...a hundred thousand details, the faint perfume on her clothes, the calluses on her hands, the furrow of her brow as she thought, the way her eyes flashed when she was happy..._

It had been so long.

Now her eyes were as cold as the stone beneath him. And yet--and yet--could a warm glimmer still exist?

Her name felt alien on his tongue. “Sif?”

“Your execution is in a week.”

“So I've been told.”

Silence.

Her lips twitched slightly. “I wanted to avoid you forever after what you did to me. But I never thought that you would die. It sounds foolish, I know, but I simply imagined you drifting off to your own path and me to mine, never to speak again. I didn't think it would happen like this.”

Seconds ticked by.

The indifference melted. “Why?” she half-whispered.

He swallowed. Blood pulsed to his cheeks. How often had he imagined this? How many hours had he spent rehearsing? And now his heart was in his throat and his face was on fire, defenses gone, disarmed as only she could disarm him. He took a breath. “Thor had set his affections upon you.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“He wanted me to leave you, so that he could try for your heart. I endured two months of struggle and after that...I folded. I let you go, and I fled in shame. If I told you of anything that was happening, Heimdall was honor-bound to tell Thor. It was because of this that I ran away and re-invented myself. But even after I had grown strong, I remained distant. I couldn't face you.”

The silence fell again, for a long time. "Heimdall..." Hurt was written on her face, but then she shook her head and the collected front returned. She looked back to him. “You were afraid to return?”

“Afraid at first. I thought that if my heart was a gauge of the damage done, then even after I was able, I couldn't ask you to forgive me. I couldn't ask for those months of blackest anguish to be re-visited and undone so soon. I thought it needed more time to fade, to heal, and then...then came the coronation."

Anger flashed through her eyes. “Why did you do it?"

"The coronation?"

"Everything. Jotunheim, Midgard--and in addition to all of those lives, you tried to kill Thor. And you killed Odin! You disguised yourself..." She shook her head. "I thought I knew you."

His lips compressed slightly. "First, I was wrong. But there are factors that you don't know. And I didn't kill Odin.”

“Tell me.”

He took another breath, then closed his eyes and changed into his Jotun form.

Sif gasped, and her footsteps shuffled back.

“I planned the attack on Thor's coronation. I knew the Jotun were preparing for war; I saw the signs, I walked among them in disguise. I knew that Odin was reluctant to face the truth, just was he was reluctant to face Thor. Thor was no better. He would have charged in and destroyed us all in a blind attack. I staged the fight to gauge their reactions.” He closed his eyes tighter. “The Jotun were already going to move. I simply directed them to do so in a beneficial way. If Thor and Odin reacted as I thought they would, then I felt it was my duty to lead. I didn't want to hurt anyone—not father, not Thor. We had rebuilt our friendship then. Even so I believed it needed to be done. Thor needed to be banished, and there he would either learn to become a worthy king or cease to be a danger. As to how that played out, he was already going to attack Jotunheim. I simply arranged things so that we wouldn't be killed there." He paused. "It was there on Jotunheim that I discovered all was not right.” Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, gaze on the floor. She was still there. Relief. “That night I returned to the vaults and discovered that I was—that I am—as you see me. I had been lied to my entire life. I snapped; Odin fell into Odinsleep, and I was left to rule in my emotionally compromised position. I made choices that I understand but cannot now condone.” He lifted his gaze, slowly, to meet hers'. “I am sorry.”

The silence continued.

"And Midgard?"

His voice was hoarse. "My mind was not my own. I was subjected by a titan named Thanos..." he told her everything, how he had struggled and sought to undermine the titan's control, how he had built the Avengers, and how the events had unfolded leading to his kingship. When he finished her expression was unreadable.

"This is the truth?"

He half-smiled. "I cannot lie to you."

Her face was conflicted. She looked up, the indifferent mask back in place, and walked away.

 


	2. Day Three

The next day passed in solitude. Was she punishing him with silence? Did she simply not believe him? The cell was bare. There was nothing to do but sleep—or to lay awake and wrestle with ghosts of the past. His cause had been just. He had done right, and was not ashamed to own his actions. Most of the specters were already laid to rest...all but that of Sif.

She was a merciless haunt. And now, in her silent wake, her powers were redoubled. Perhaps it was unjust to look for sympathy. Especially since he had done his worst to eradicate any love for him from her heart. But even so, could she?—no. She had no reason to think his actions were towards a greater purpose. Did she? If not, it was best that she despised him still. Otherwise she would be foolish. But...

Over and over the thoughts echoed. He closed his eyes, but sleep offered little respite. It suspended his mind in a half-lucid state, repeating, repeating...

The sudden feeling of being watched. He opened his eyes, turned.

Sif leaned against the wall outside the cell.

His heart skipped a beat. Did this mean she was finished punishing him? Or was this just the beginning?

He sat up.

Her carefully indifferent look was gone, replaced by anger. “I thought about your story,” she said. “I thought I could almost believe it. Then I remembered something.” She reached into a pocket and held up a lock of golden hair. His heart clenched, and her eyes flashed. Her voice was contemptuous."Why?"

***

_It was the third week after he had left her._

_“Meet me," the note had said. "Library." It bore her handwriting._

_How he had wanted to answer. How he had wanted to accept the invitation, confess everything._

_But now it was not only the threat of Heimdall's pressed service that stayed his course. Over the past agonizing days he had thought long and hard about what he must do—and concluded that the actions before him had to be undertaken alone._

_Perhaps, in a twisted way, Thor's abuse had freed him to to set his plans into motion. They had both affirmed the necessity of his action and severed him from any restraining ties. If he was to risk his life, it had to be exclusively his life that he risked. Sif's was not part of the equation. If he was caught, and if she was linked to him in any way, she could be seen as an accomplice. Also, her perspicasity made her another kind of stumbling-block. Once she became suspicious—as she inevitably would—she would come face-to-face with a conspiracy deep enough to shake the core of Asgard._

_Maybe he could explain to her his motivations, his justifications, his plans...but then came again the issue of her being dragged under judgment beside him._

_This wasn't her fight._

_But...if she could see inside his mind at this instant, would she say the same? Would she accuse him of disregarding her, of blocking her out when she could be the ally he needed?_

_Even so it would not do. In the end, everything came back to Heimdall._

_Heimdall, all-seeing brother of Sif._

_Heimdall, whom he could avoid and whom she could not. If he was sensitive to the affairs of the people, he was a thousand times more to those of his sister._

_He could not risk her life. He could not pit her between brother, country and lover. He couldn't. Couldn't..._

_He had been over the thoughts daily, again and again, sometimes weeping from desire of reconciliation and then equally resolute in his solitary course._

_Her letter revived the debate en force. He sat on the edge of his bed racing through the same worn pathways, the letter crinkled from his worrying fingers._

_In the end, though, he had known what must be done since the beginning. And he had to do more than simply ignore her. If he ignored her, she could continue to hope. To think the best of him. He sighed, rested his face in his hands. If this was going to work, she had to despise him._

Painful tightness seized his chest.

_Five hours he had waited, occupied himself in reading though his mind wandered anxiously and his head ached. When at last he had entered the library, stolen down corridors and behind bookshelves to the place where they used to meet, she had fallen asleep as per his prediction. His heart had throbbed with a sickening pain worse than anything he'd felt before. To see her sleeping peacefully, a book on her lap, leaning against the wall with her hair falling thick about her chest and shoulders in a shimmering veil... If she woke her face would brighten in hopeful delight that he had come. Her eyes would well up with tears and beg an explanation, for reconciliation. He would crack beneath the stare. He couldn't face her like that._

_But if he did what he must, those eyes would never again look on him with anything but bitter sorrow._

_His throat had been tight and his vision blurry through a glaze of tears. But this was what needed to be done. He whispered a spell. She wouldn't wake for some time. Gently he gathered the beautiful hair into his hand, took the knife from his boot and cut it off. He released the silken strands and they scattered softly across her lap and the binding of her book._

_Her face had been so serene, oblivious to the betrayal._

_His hands had trembled. He picked up one of the golden locks, twined it around his fingers and moved to tuck it in his lapel pocket before stopping. He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. He had clenched it in his fist, kissed it, and then let it fall. He was gone before she woke._

_***_

He took a deep breath. "I needed you to hate me."

Her look darkened.

"I could either watch you pine away, waiting for a return that couldn't come; or I could see your thoughts of me abandoned and your comfort sought from others. So I cut your hair, though I had rather cut my own wrists."

Her inclination was unreadable. A pink tinge touched her eyes. She swallowed. "Was it worth it?"

He bowed his head. There was a slight pause. "Do you remember when--"

"Don't try to talk around the question."

"Sif."

Her lips puckered slightly.

"You know what you're asking. If you try to trap me in my words it will only cause confusion.”

After a slight pause she nodded, then slid down the wall until seated. She glanced away. "Continue."

"Do you remember that day, when we sat on the balcony?"

***

_Their backs were to one of the huge pillars, feet on the ledge. A warm breeze stirred the air. Conversation had meandered occasionally, but a sleepy contented quiet sat between them. There was communication enough, though, because theirs was just as poetic without words. They had no responsiblities that day. Most of it had been spent lounging there._

_A thought had been synthesising itself into words for the past half-hour. Now was the conflict—talk and possibly disrupt the peace? Or not? He took a breath. “I think...if we were to somehow have been born under different circumstances, your soul with my body and mine with yours, we should have been perfectly happy. You would have been the prince they wish I was. As for me, I would read and learn and craft until I died, perfectly content. We'd be darlings where we were. But neither of us would have been motivated to change._

_The mold you're breaking would have remained in place. Women like you, stifled under a system that started well but calcified into a monstrosity—they would never have had a voice. You were forced to step up as a leader, and society is changing as a result. And me...well..."_

_He sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against the pillar. The sun was warm on his face. "I think...I think it's all worth it. It hurts. And it will continue to hurt. But it's worth something, Sif—it's worth something far more than we can imagine yet." He opened his eyes. The sky was a vivid summer blue. "We're just little pieces in a huge plot, and if we don't do our parts sooner or later somebody else will. But why give up that honor? I think the long, slow gnaw of regret would outweigh any benefit. So I'm glad. I'm not always happy, but in my heart I know I'm doing what is right.” His voice dropped slightly. “I know that good will ultimately come of it.”_

_***_

She winced slightly, and the angry edge softened.

"My actions...for lives saved, for hopes restored, I count them done well. But for the breaking of your trust, I...I can only forgive myself with your permission."

She looked up with a flash of surprise, quickly masked again.

There was a long pause.

He half-laughed. “I am conflicted. Part of me would beg forgiveness here and now, but the other bids me hold my plea lest you take offense. For the request is brash, and certainly worthy of offense for the wrongs it seeks to cover.”

She looked away again, and the flush deepened. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes stretched into five, then ten. Her face was utterly unreadable. Would she forgive? Or would she simply leave, like last time? Both ways seemed justifiable. She could choose either. Which one? He released a slow breath, quietly, closed his eyes for a moment. Her decision would be her own. He had spoken his last piece; no worrying of his would change it.

Finally: “I swore I would never forgive you,” she said. “I feel weak for even considering your story. It feels like self-betrayal to think...” She exhaled shakily and dropped her forehead to her knees, hands clasped around her shins. Her breath was uneven, and her shoulders began to bob. Another several seconds slipped away. His heartbeat sped up. Was she—was she...he swallowed and tried to push back the thought. No use raising his hopes to have them dashed.

Her crying turned into full sobs. Suspense coiled tighter in his chest. Sobs of acceptance or denial? Still they continued, giving no insight to her thoughts.

Finally it was too much. He dropped from the bench to his knees. “Sif, I can bear it no longer—have you forgiven me?!”

Another few seconds passed, and then she looked up, face red and glistening with silvery trails. She shook her head. “Can it be true?” she whispered.

“Oh, Sif,” he breathed. “It's true.”

“And will you...can you...” She shook her head, rose and knelt again by the front of his cell, hands on the rim. He took a breath. “Your name has been seared into my heart and I cannot banish it. I cannot count the sleepless nights and painful days with knowledge of your sorrow burning in my head—I cannot help it. I cannot stop it. From now and to the end of the worlds I am, and forever shall be, yours.”

“Can it be?” she whispered again. A hopeful light flashed through her eyes, spreading across her face in a glow. Then it faded. Her breathing slowed and her voice took a sudden chill. “You ever were one for deciet.”

He shook his head. “Never to you, Sif. Never to you. In all this time, have you never known me?”

“I thought I did,” she snapped.

“You did, Sif! Out of all creatures in the Nine Realms, you alone have seen my heart! I swear it to you by—by I know not what. If my words are hollow in your eyes I am undone and perhaps 'tis just. But everything I have told you—everything I have done—all of it was true!” His breath shuddered, and tears rolled down his face. “It is not my place to plead with you. But I must do so. In the past, you must have seen the pieces that produced what you see here. Am I not a continuation of what I always was, what I always must have been? I wanted you to hate me...” He paused, head bowed, words trailed off. He couldn't speak. Not yet. His fate wasn't yet sealed. He could linger in fading hope just a moment longer...

His voice was soft, cracked. “I wanted you to hate me because I love you.”

When at last he looked up, Sif was seated on the ground, leaning against the outcropping beneath the cell wall with her head on her arm. After a moment she looked up as well. Her eyes were soft, and their silent gaze communicated more than could ever be put into words.

She believed him. Oh, she believed him!

The stare seemed to last for ages. It was as it always had been, always should be. Years of animosity fell away; a spark re-ignited, a heartbeat restored. Her face flushed and she opened her mouth as if to speak--

A male voice from down the hall. “Lady Sif.” Two guards approached. “Your time with the prisoner has expired.”

Alarm flashed across her face and she righted herself, brushed off her clothing.

Their looks were suspicious.

She nodded and fell in line behind them. As they started forward she sent a glance his way. After she passed from sight, he bowed his head. His heart throbbed in his ears and the tears continued—an overwhelming crash of emotion, the greatest joy, highest elation...he could die a happy man.

The sensation muted.

Die, when he had something now for which to live? He had been satisfied in the completion of his goals, confident of a place with his ancestors in Valhalla...

But now he had Sif.

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his hand over his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to resist titling this chapter "Hair today, gone tomorrow"...  
> I also feel like I got to channel a bit of Loki's inner Mr. Darcy (who knew he had one?).


	3. Day Five

 

Dark, constricted.

He could freeze the chains that bound him upright against the wall, shatter them and walk free.

Perhaps he would be killed. Perhaps he would escape.

Was it worth it to wait like this? Was it worth it to suffer for so slim a chance?

It was. It had to be, lest he be branded a _níðingr_ and live in unending shame. In the aching pain of separation, the questions had been painful.

After the previous day's move to solitary confinement, they were maddening.

Breath hollow in the tiny space.

Pressing walls. Invisible in the black, the door mocked only an inch from his face. If he imagined, he could sense it nearly physically. He tried not to imagine.

Heartbeat.

Silence.

Two more days to while away until death.

He closed his eyes.

A whisper from outside: “Loki?”

“Sif?” His voice sounded tinny.

“Hide me!” she whispered.

He cast a concealing spell across the outer area and the walls of the box began to warm. The temperature would increase until he ceased the magic. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“You weren't in your cell, so I figured they'd moved you to solitary confinement. From there it was just a matter of...well, sneaking in. I'm in disguise. I knew you would be able to hide me.”

“How are you going to get out?”

“That's what I wanted to ask you.”

Even if it hadn't been heating up, the box was infinitely more stifling than before. He clenched his jaw, heart pounding.

A touch on the outside door, the soft slide of a hand opposite his face.

Her hand, a mere inch or so away. He closed his eyes and imagined the touch on his cheek.

“Loki.”

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do?”

“What can I do?”

“You must have a plan.”

What was she doing now? Standing, maybe wearing a cloak—she had said she was disguised. That grave look would be on her face: brows slightly furrowed and up-tilted, a stiffness about the lips and an impassioned shine in her eyes.

Her voice held incredulity. “Are you giving up?”

Stormy disbelief, even indignation would flash through her gaze.

“I have nothing to give.”

“But--”

“I'm here because I let them take me.” He shifted and the chains clinked. He took a shaky breath. “These shackles hold me not. Heimdall have I evaded thrice already, and I could easily walk unrecognized among the guards. You know why I'm here. If I were to run, it would confirm my guilt in the eyes of my brother and my people. I have to prove my innocence, Sif—I have to prove my honor. In the very least I must try. I know Thor. If I ran from this charge, a thousand years could not blunt its grip on his mind. I would be a coward and a wretch, and if he saw me again he would kill me without a second thought!” He shook his head. “This is my last chance.”

“But you know you're innocent. And I know you're innocent. Loki, your life is at stake!”

“Life every man holds dear; but the brave man holds honor far more precious-dear than life.*” The door, the door was stifling, crushing, his breath against his own face, heat in the walls building.

She half-laughed. “You quote Hector. Shall your body be dragged through Asgard like his through Troy?” A pause. “You speak in the verses of Midgard, and I shall answer likewise: What is honor? A word.”

He smiled slightly despite himself, even as sweat ran down his temples and ache shot through his limbs, ebb and flow of near-panic.

“What is in that word “honor”?...Air...Who hath it? He that died o' Wodensday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead.”

He took a breath, but she continued. “But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll none of it.*”

His voice sounded hoarse. “Such is not the way of Asgard.”

Another pause and a sigh. “I know. I speak only selfishly.”

But was she right? He closed his eyes. Was this really worth it? “I fault you not,” he near-whispered. “I feel the same.” Another pause. “Would that I could act upon it. But...my brother, my people! I would be branded a _níðingr_  until the end of time, an object of the most vile hate known to sentience! Reputation, reputation, reputation—I will have lost my reputation, and what remains will be bestial.*”

She took a slight breath, released it. Her voice was soft, halting. “Your life isn't confined to this place. Suppose we did escape—started over somewhere far from here, another of the Realms. Think of what you could do with what you know! Would it not be wrong to die here, with no attempt at opposition?”

It was uncomfortably hot, almost on the threshold of burning. “To cause injury now is to justify the blackening of my name. Then, to get caught is to blacken it again. Finally, to run is to blacken it beyond repair, to leave me at odds with my brother until death. I cannot sacrifice that. I cannot allow the destruction of my legacy.”

There was another long silence. The heat continued its incremental increase. Sweat trickled over his brow, over his eyes. His voice was soft. “You should go. Heimdall will note my silence and your absence."

“Is that it, then? Is this the end?”

“Not the end, for the truth of my actions is known in Valhalla, and I shall see you there if not before.”

“There is so much I wanted,” she whispered.

Another kind of warmth touched his cheeks. “I as well.” No more. He could not remain trapped any longer. He had to see her one more time.

“I wonder what our life could have looked like.”

“As do I." He gathered his thoughts, focused; the heat grew exponentially, and then--

Light. Hall. Sif.

Shock written across her face. “Loki?”

She was beautiful.

Even as the metal seared his body within the box, it was worth it.

He held out a hand and she reached out, fingers flickering through the holographic image. “How cruel,” he whispered, “that it should bait as attainable and fly further than before.”

She swallowed, tears welling in her eyes, face flushing. “But is it unattainable? Could you not choose that life—our life--over this doomed honor?”

“Wicked world, that this should be my choice.” The burn increased, blisters breaking out across his skin. He shrouded the dripping sweat beneath illusion.

A tear spilled down her cheek. “There must be another way. Loki, there must be something else!”

He shushed her as her lips puckered and she glanced up and down the hall.

“Spell's not that strong, Sif.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. “There must be something. I know there is.”

His ability was draining. “There will be nothing if you stay any longer.”

She sighed. Then her eyes lit up. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Before the execution I shall run out and undo your bonds. Use your magic to hold everyone off, and in the resulting uproar make your plea. Thus Thor shall hear.” She pressed her lips together. “At that time, whatever choice you make...whatever choice you make, I support. If you choose to die for honor, I shall see you off like Volumnia*; if you would fly and spend your days with me, then I should follow you to the ends of the Realms ere be parted.”

His holographic form flickered. There was no longer sweat; just dry scorching heat. “If we fail, your life will end with mine.”

“I know.” She reached for his hand and again the fingers passed through.

Oh, to be so close and so impossibly, impossibly far away!

No. He clenched his jaw. If it killed him, this once...

He summoned more, focused. The heat exploded against his skin and he bit back a groan.

He took Sif's hand.

She gasped.

His heart pounded and his breath came in gasps, skin cracking. Vision was hazy, blurry splotches of color at the edges. He caressed her cheek and she put her hand over his. Her eyes were wide, glistened with pain and joy.

Dizzy, tilting.

“Don't kill yourself now,” she whispered.

He drew her in and pressed his lips to hers, circled his other hand around her waist and pulled her close. She embraced him. Seconds passed. He pulled back just slightly. “I love you,” he whispered.

Her breath was soft on his cheek. “I know.”

“Visit no more until the final day. I need you there.”

“'T will be so.”

He released the illusion.

Sif and the hallway disappeared, replaced by glowing metal, heat, choking, scorched--

 

Cold. A curious lack of physical feeling. He closed his eyes. If he tried to heal himself, the walls would activate again.

But out of everything—the burns, the cold, the cramp, the separation, the screaming silence--the worst pain was that of the looming choice.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do some re-writes after researching the emphasis on honor and legacy in Norse society, haha.
> 
> If you're curious about "níðingr" and the weight of honor in Viking culture, check out this page from www.hurstwic.org: "Honor, Dueling, and Drengskapr in the Viking Age" http://www.hurstwic.org/history/articles/society/text/drengur.htm
> 
> * Loki quotes from the play “Trolius and Cressida”, a tragedy set during the Trojan War. The speaker of the quote is the Trojan champion Hector. For the sake of honor, he rejected his family's prophetic visions of his destruction and led an impossible battle. Hector was then killed by the Greek champion Achilles, who tied his body behind his horse and dragged it through the battlefield.
> 
> * Sif retorts with Falstaff's soliloquy in Henry IV pt. 1, in which he questions the meaning of honor leading up to the battle of Shrewsbury. 
> 
> * Loki quotes Cassio's lament over his lost reputation, from the play “Othello”.
> 
> * Volumnia is the mother of Caius Martius “Coriolanus” in the play Coriolanus. She is fanatically proud of his successes and pushes him forward into war and violence for the honor she knows he'll receive.


	4. A Well-Executed Plan

 

Grating squeal of metal and the door opened. Light, air, sound and he gasped.

A troop of guards, forms fuzzy as his eyes adjusted.

They winced. One smiled and shook his head. “You should have figured out your magic couldn't help you.”

They clamped something over his mouth, then two grabbed his arms and hauled him out. His legs buckled and he dropped to his knees; they pulled him upright.

The shackles were replaced on wrists, ankles, neck and belt.

“These are scorched. Go get a new set of clothes from the warden.”

A guard ran down the hall.

“Today's the big day,” said another. He issued a command to the troop and they followed after the first.

His legs gave way again.

“Get up.”

His speech was lost in the muzzle. “Mm.” He shook his head and closed his eyes.

 

“Loki.”

Ceiling above, and a dozen speartips at his throat.

A guard knelt beside him. “I'm taking the muzzle off. Heal yourself, and then it's going right back on again. Try anything and you're dead.”

The guard unlatched and removed the muzzle. Loki licked his lips, then cast a healing spell. Pain flared back to life as nerves healed, then subsided as the damage was corrected. He sighed. “You know, I'll be dead even if I don't try anyth—mf.”

The muzzle was replaced.

The spears drew back, he was pulled to his feet once more, and they continued.

Upon reaching the office of the warden he was given a rough brown tunic, which he donned in stages as they unbuckled and re-buckled the various shackles.

After this they made their way from the dungeons into the palace main.

The feeling struck him harder than he had anticipated—to see light, beauty, echoes of home and fond memories forever barred from grasp. They walked through golden halls now forbidden, serene peace broken by clanking chains and stomping boots. The odd courtisan paused to watch in fear, sorrow, curiousity; all eyes on him.

Occasionally he gave a cheeky nod and watched them nearly panic at being 'recognized' by the imprisoned.

They departed the palace and descended the stairs into the city.

Sunshine, a breeze on his face and the smell of summer: foliage, flowers and the salty sea.

At first their passage through the houses was silent. As they neared the massive plaza, the rushing murmur of a great many voices became audible.

“Look! They're here!” “Is it him?” “There's Loki, in the center!”

Citizens lined the rooftops, pointing and jostling.

There were shouts and jeers. A shingle crashed into his temple. Putrefied fruit splatted across his cheek and he shook his head to dislodge it. The guards put their shields above their heads and marched in silence as garbage rained down.

Rotten egg, refuse, stones, a shoe, mud. A brick and he staggered, knocked into a guard.

At last the first part of the gauntlet was run and they entered the square. An aisle had been set up for their passage, lined by guards. All of Asgard must have been present in the tossing crowd. As they entered a massive roar went up through the ranks.

The guards fell back and pushed him to the front, lowered their spears level to his back and prodded him forward.

More pelting garbage. He would be paraded in a circuit around the entirety of the square before mounting the platform.

He kept his head high and gaze fixed ahead. Reeking fruit ran into his eyes and he wiped it on his shoulder. It mixed with the blood running down his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his jaw, stinging as it crossed the wounds.

His vision began to swim beneath the constant pelting. One foot in front of the other. He focused on each step; the feeling of his cloth shoe on the cobblestone, of the individual pebbles beneath the soles, of the slight crunch made by the shifting grit. Picking out that sound over the clamor of the crowd was a challenge; it created a field of concentration that reduced their insults to incoherent noise.

He focused on his breathing as well, the rise and fall of his chest, expansion and contraction of his ribs, the rush of air.

A bottle shattered against his face and he fell.

A momentous cheer went up.

“Stop.” Thor's voice. The crowd hushed.

Loki blinked carefully, wiped residual grime from his eyes and stood. The elevated royal box was before him. They had reached the half-way point of the circle. Thor sat impassively on the throne in his winged helmet and his father's ceremonial armor. Gungnir was in his hand, the crows Huginn and Munnin perched beside him and wolves Geri and Freki were at his feet. On his right was Heimdall. On his left sat Sif and the Warriors Three. Flanking on each side were the members of the court and nobles, and around them were guards.

Thor's voice rolled over the square. “Let the prisoner be presented.”

Loki drew himself to his full height, even as egg, blood, sweat, grime ran down his face. He brought his heels together in exaggerated attention.

The captain of the guards stepped forwad. “Loki Laufeyson stands accused of high treason, sabotage, subterfuge, war crimes, genocide, murder. These crimes have been witnessed, attested, tried and found guilty by inhabitants of three realms.”

Sif's eyes flicked to his, then away.

“We, too, find him guilty,” said Thor. His eyes were icy, a cold mask over the deep hurt beneath. “Let him pay with his life.” He gestured, and the guards seized his arms once more.

“To the death!” rose a scream from the crowd. It was taken up by others in a maddened frenzy, worked into a ringing chant as they continued along the second half of the circuit towards the platform. At last they reached the stairs, climbed and stood atop it.

They walked him to the bloodstained block and fastened his chains to rings in the floor. Blows fell on the backs of his knees and he dropped. He looked at Sif and nodded.

The distance was great, and she had to cross the crowd.

His stomach clenched. Could she do it?

They pushed him forward, his neck against the block and he gagged.

A sudden clamor went up from the crowd—short, sharp explosions. Flash bombs. He smiled. He'd shown her that trick.

Footsteps slammed down on the platform and there was another flash, groans.

He was jerked upright.

A key clicked in the lock and the muzzle was torn from his face.

He stood, magically unlatched the chains, pivoted himself in front of Sif and teleported.

Upon arrival he cast a freezing spell.

They stood before the royal box, all movement ceased save him and Sif.

He released her and she stepped to the side.

Thor stood, immobile, livid.

Loki gestured. In a shimmer of green the ragged tunic was replaced by his familiar attire. Caked garbage melted away and his hair tidied. He smiled. “There. Isn't that better?”

He still wore the tunic. The wounds still burned and throbbed, blood still ran, yolk still dripped; but his exterior had the pristine regality of a king. His voice was soft. “Do you have the time now, brother? It seems I have a captive audience.” He half-smiled, and it faded. “I pray you now, hear my tale.”

The parts with Thor and Odin he condensed, using vague terms and hints that only those intimately involved with the situation would understand. Upon coming to the war with Jotunheim he expanded, skimming his disguised excursions into enemy territory and manipulation of their war plans. He revealed his Jotun form to onlookers and offered a simple explanation, a simple apology. He explained his encounter with the Mad Titan and formation of the Avengers team; finally, he finished with an account of Odin's death and blessing.

At the end there was a long silence.

His power was ebbing. Sweat formed on his brow. “Well, brother? What say you?” He released him.

Thor stood motionless, jaw flexing, fists clenched. His lip curled and he shook his head. His muscles twitched as he moved to attack and Loki froze him again.

He exhaled.

Time slowed to a crawl.

So that was it.

Seconds ticked by, gaze on the ground.

He took a deep breath and looked at Sif.

Emotion simmered in her eyes. Her lips twitched, her brow furrowed slightly and she swallowed. Her head dipped in the slightest of nods.

His heart thudded.

He swallowed, half-laughed, glanced from Thor to the ground. “So you don't believe me.”

He looked up again and gestured. There was a crackle. Behind him opened a portal to a bustling city of some kind, situated within a massive cavern. Neon lights on giant signs rose above battered metal buildings. Hovering craft zipped through the air and crawled up the walls, harvesting strange yellow liquid. Crowds of beings arrayed from the ordinary to the outlandish filled the streets. Through a massive hole in the wall, a field of stars was visible. It was a mining town—a place from which he could disappear to the far reaches of the galaxy.

“I could run, Thor. As surely as I stand here I could run.” A pause. “Would you chase me?” He loosened the spell so that his brother could speak.

“As long as I live,” Thor growled. Fire flashed in his eyes, a glower of deepest anger.

Loki closed his eyes. He took a breath, then approached the closest guard and pried the sword from his frozen fingers, slowly returned center-stage. He lifted it, blade aimed at Thor. “Hm.” He half-smiled, grim. “Then let my name be redeemed by my blood.” Loki turned the blade towards himself, gripped the hilt with both hands and thrust it through his heart.

Gasps rang through the crowd. Thor's face blanched in shock. The portal to escape disappeared.

Loki's breath caught and he dropped to his knees, clutching the hilt and doubling forward as blood spurted over his hands. His breath came in uneven gasps and each heartbeat triggered a new shock. He looked Thor in the eye again and the focus steadied him.

He pulled on the blade. It slid halfway and he gasped. The edges of his vision blurred, reds pulsing in time with each throb. He steadied his grip and pulled the weapon free, slumped onto his side. A gout of blood spurted across the ground and splashed the front of the box. The rhythmic gush continued, lessening each time.

“Give me--” His voice failed and he coughed. He pushed himself up on an unsteady elbow. “Give me Mjolnir,” he gasped. He released the spell and Thor took the hammer from the ground by his feet, gave it a hesitant look.

Loki held out a hand and Thor threw the hammer.

The handle thwacked against his palm and he gripped it. Gasps, screams, cries exploded from the crowd as he lifted it, pushed himself to his knees and held it aloft.

Thor's eyes were wide with horror, brimming with tears. He shook his head and ran towards him.

Loki's grip faltered. He lowered the hammer and fell back on his side.

Darkness narrowed the edges of his vision.

A clasp of his hand pushed back the shadow for a moment. Sif's voice, soft. “Farewell, brave king.”

Thor's voice echoed from far away. “Loki!”

***

Thor knelt before his brother and blood soaked his knees. “Loki...” Tears streamed down his face. “Oh, Yggradsil, he was telling the truth! Sif!”

She swallowed, shook her head. His pulse fluttered faintly beneath her fingertips, weakening by the second.

Thor looked back to Loki. “Brother...”

She slipped her fingers around his wrist and held it, twined her fingers through his. For a moment longer there was a beat. Then it faded entirely.

The blood lessened to a weak trickle. Seconds ticked by; ten, fifteen, twenty.

The projected raiment faded in a green glow, revealing rags soaked in refuse and a face battered and bleeding.

Stunned silence from the crowd.

Thor was mute, attempting to speak and failing, a mountain of tangled emotion. Finally he shook his head. “He lifted Mjolnir.” He took a shaky breath. “This...what should I do?”

“You are the king,” said Sif. “It is for you to decide.”

“I don't know what to do.”

She fixed him with a look, voice quiet. “That is something a king must never say.”

“He was...” Thor shook his head. “I didn't know! I couldn't—he--”

She hissed sharply between her teeth.

Thor inhaled, pressed his fist to his lips. He blinked several times and a tear fell from his eyelashes.

She took a breath. “I do not think you've done wrong. With the reputation he had crafted...this was the only way he could convince you. My counsel is to act upon it.”

He shook his head again. “How. What can I do?” He gestured at Loki's body.

A moment passed. “Inter him with ceremony. Put his name in the records of the kings. Honor him for what he's done.” She ran her thumb over the back of the cool hand. “Let him be immortalized as a hero.”

The crowd was dispersed, confused, angry and afraid, back to their homes. Thor remained as a statue beside his brother as everything was dismantled around them. It was done in silence, as if by ghosts. Still Sif clasped Loki's hand and wrist, sole patches of warmth on the chill skin.

Light faded to twilight and torches were lit.

The courtiers kept their space, and the Warriors Three stood guard. Thor and Sif sat vigil through the night.

Morning dawned.

They were no longer king and subject, but mourners equal.

“A funeral,” she said.

Thor blinked, gave her a quizzical look. It was the first breaking of the silence since the vigil had begun.

“Send him off like a king.”

Thor swallowed and nodded. He took a breath, squeezed his eyes shut and then open, rose from his knees and winced.

Sif moved to rise, then stopped. She couldn't let go yet.

“Will you not accompany me?” he asked.

“Later.”

Thor nodded and left.

She sat for some time longer.

Finally she released his wrist, freed her hand from the stiff grasp. Her throat tightened again. She put a hand on his shoulder and on his face.

How often she'd studied it, every angle, every line, every mark. She traced her thumb over his brow, across his cheekbone and down the bridge of his nose, over his lips to the edge of his jaw. And yet this before her was somehow so alien from what she had known and loved.

A strong aversion struck with a burst of clarity.

This form before her, beaten, waxy, stiff, discolored; this was just an empty shell. Precious memories, precious gifts, precious images...those held more life than this. Sif leaned in and kissed his cold cheek. She closed her eyes a moment. Then she stood.

Thor rounded the corner with subordinates in tow. He knelt, hesitated. Then he took Mjolnir from his brother's grasp and stood. The others gathered the body, took it away.

Sif and Thor stood together in silence for a moment. With a dip of his head he excused himself, and she followed back to the palace to prepare.

 

That night they stood on the embankment at the end of the canal, overlooking the sea. This was the ceremonial place of send-off. It had been the funeral-ground of kings since the beginning of Asgard. Two weeks ago Odin had sailed this path to Valhalla. Less than a year ago Frigga had preceded him along the same route, and now her son would follow.

At the edge the dark waters dropped off against a starry expanse.

The same ones who had earlier thrown garbage now stood quiet, in mourning colors. A writ of explanation had been sent throughout Asgard.

Dotted through the somber mass like stars were spherical lanterns. On either side of the canal they gathered. Her fist tightened on the bow. Thor stood beside her.

The boat came into view. The only breakage of the silence was the gentle lap of water against the walls of the channel as it passed.

On a pyre in the center, Loki lay in full armor. His wounds had been dressed and closed and his appearance was pristine; a final illusion. A sword had been laid on his chest, but the daggers he favored were resting by his side. At his feet were his helm and a shield.

The boat floated into the darkness of the sea until it nearly disappeared from sight.

Sif nodded. A guard took an arrow and touched it to one of the torches. Sif took the flaming arrow and nocked it to the bow, drew back, aimed and fired. It arced through the air, fading to a tiny orange pinprick before striking the boat and exploding into flame. She lowered the bow as a dozen other archers nocked and fired, their arrows catching on smaller mock-boats, dotting the sea with light.

She looked at Thor. His massive frame swelled as he took a breath. Like his father at his mother's funeral, he thumped his spear against the ground. Loki's boat sailed over the edge of the Asgardian sea into the stars beyond. After a short distance a swirling cluster of lights rose from the pyre and ascended; the boat fell. The people released their lanterns in a glowing wave.

The sparkling flecks continued to rise until they were barely visible. “Until Valhalla,” she whispered. They winked from view.

 

 ***

 

She lay propped on her elbows on the damp rock, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder to dangle above the pool. “Look,” she purred. “Does this please you?”

Her sister peeped over her shoulder. The funeral played out again across the water's surface, Loki's boat sailing past in solemn glory. Lorelei's lip quivered, then curled, and she turned away with a disgusted grunt.

Amora chuckled. “Still conflicted. You should learn to make up your mind.”

Her sister's footsteps receded.

“You'll see him again."

The steps paused.

Amora leaned over the edge and traced a finger along the image of his face. The ripples distorted the picture. “Ragnarok is coming.” She smiled.

 

 

 


End file.
